


Dean/Crowley Drabbles

by dreamsofspike



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2018-09-29 21:32:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10144781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofspike/pseuds/dreamsofspike
Summary: A collection of my drabbles for the pairing Dean/Crowley from Supernatural.Warnings: violence, dub-con, non-con, dom/sub, power themes, character death, demon!Dean





	1. Fair Play

Things aren’t exactly going according to plan.

 

He’s the bloody King, isn’t he? He should be in control – of the situation, of his brand new protégé who insists on doing whatever the hell he wants no matter what Crowley says…

 

Of his own bloody _feelings_.

 

One day he’ll make Moose pay for that. But today isn’t that day. Today, he’s reduced to trying to find ways to make Dean pay attention to him, like a lovesick school girl trying to turn the head of the high school quarterback. It’s pathetic, and humiliating, and bloody well _infuriating_ , but – well, there it is.

 

He’s the King of Hell, with infinite power at his disposal – and he’s bloody well _smitten_ with fucking _Dean Winchester._

 

And Dean – Dean doesn’t appear to give a damn.

 

Dean’s at the bar, downing his latest drink – Crowley lost count a couple of hours ago – and smiling that deceptively alluring smile at the pretty little brunette perched on the stool beside him. As Crowley watches, he says something that makes her laugh, and then shifts in a little closer to her, his hand sliding along the bar until his fingers brush against her bare arm.

 

He’s moving in for the kill – though not even close to as literally as Crowley wishes he would.

 

Well, two can play that little game. Crowley’s not going to sit around all night miserably pining as Dean chases after every pretty young thing that crosses his path. No, he has style, and class, and moves of his own that Dean’s never seen – and it isn’t long before he’s got the appreciative eye of an attractive redhead in her mid-thirties, with a sleek black dress and hands that keep reaching out for casual, flirtatious touches.

 

Dean never looks his way, never seems to notice – but it isn’t long before he finishes the drink in front of him, and says something to the girl beside him, something that wipes the smile from her face and makes her eyes go wide with shock. She snarls something bitter and angry at him, hurt in her eyes as she turns and stalks off.

 

Dean spins on his stool and gets to his feet, striding toward Crowley with a cool smile and purposeful steps. He grabs his arm, hard enough to hurt, and drags him out of his seat and toward the exit without a word – and Crowley suppresses a smile.

 

Dean shoves him, off balance, into their room, slamming the door behind them and stalking toward Crowley like a predator. Before Crowley can recover, Dean has swept his feet out from under him, sending him sprawling onto his back on the shoddy motel mattress. Then he pounces, strong fingers locked around Crowley’s wrists and pinning him to the bed, Dean’s knees on either side of Crowley’s hips, and a dangerous smile an inch from Crowley’s mouth.

 

“What’s the matter?” Crowley taunts him, enjoying the delicious thrill of danger that slides down his spine at the smoldering fury in Dean’s eyes. “I have to share, but you don’t, is that it?”

 

Dean’s mouth twitches slightly at the corner, his grip tightening until Crowley winces, and he leans in to whisper against Crowley’s ear, hushed and dark in a way that makes him shiver.

 

“ _Exactly_.”

 

He shuts up the indignant protest on the edge of Crowley’s lips, swallowing it up in a fierce, possessive kiss, and Crowley finds himself yielding, relaxing into the hold of Dean’s hands, the onslaught of his mouth, and surrendering completely. Dean rips Crowley’s shirt as he yanks it off of him, tossing it to the floor, rough hands grabbing at him, forcing submission that Crowley’s all too willing to give.

 

He’s the King, and he should be in control. And what Dean doesn’t understand is – he _is_.

 

Crowley smiles, closing his eyes and drinking in Dean’s focused attention, as Dean ruthlessly tears into him with fierce, possessive abandon.

 

Everything may not be going according to plan – but the King of Hell still knows how to get _exactly_ what he wants.


	2. Calling the Shots

He laughs a little, to himself, at the sight of the fallen demon king, feels vicious satisfaction at the smirks Crowley’s underlings exchange at his expense – but it isn’t enough, Dean knows; Crowley will still get up and brush himself off and somehow manage to regain enough dignity to look like he’s in control of this situation – unless Dean makes sure he doesn’t.

Dean crosses the room to him in two swift strides, crouches down in front of him, grabs him by the throat and hauls him up, pushing him back against the dirty vinyl booth behind him – the First Blade in his free hand making Crowley shiver, eyes wide with fear, as it brushes his cheek.

“You don’t call the shots around here.” Dean uses the Blade to tip Crowley’s head back and chuckles when he flinches; he rises to his feet, the Blade still teasing Crowley’s throat, his free hand reaching for his zipper, a soft, cruel smile on his lips. “But you’re gonna get up on your knees… and show them who does.


	3. Clean

He stopped shooting up human blood months ago, hated how vulnerable and weepy and bloody _useless_ it made him feel - so why is he still haunted by these bloody _feelings_?  
  
He'd like to forget about Dean's rejection... like to have his poor excuse for a mother beheaded and be done with it... like to seek out Moose and make him pay for ever doing this to him in the first place... but he knows it won't help; he's said it once, and now he'll never be able to forget it.  
  
All he's ever wanted, all he'll ever want, and all he'll never have... is love.


	4. Paying an Old Debt

"All-powerful magic weapons are tricky," Dean muses, tracing the blade down the demon king’s side and smiling at his shudder. “Sometimes they work… sometimes they’re fucking _useless_ and get your friends ripped apart by hellhounds.”  
  
The blade slides in with ease, sparks of fire arcing through Crowley’s agonized face before the light goes out.  
  
Dean smiles, shrugging as he puts the First Blade away. “This one works just fine.”


	5. Cruel to Be Kind

He doesn’t _have_ to tell Crowley about the lies, or that they were just using him.  
  
Hurt is clear in the demon’s eyes – _too human_ – and Dean feels a pang of regret, wishes for a moment he could take it back.  
  
But Cain’s words echo in his head, and as Crowley vanishes without a word, Dean knows he’s made the right call.  
  
 _Can’t kill him if he’s not around…_


	6. Helpless (One Sentence)

It's suicidally reckless, playing these games with a Knight of Hell, someone who can overpower him, pin him down with a hand, or with a _thought_ ; he's usually the strongest, so submission's just an illusion, but with Dean, it's _real_ , and risky, and just a little bit terrifying - and that's what makes it fun.


	7. Just a Game (20 Words)

Black eyes over a cruel smile, blade tracing exposed skin. Crowley shivers when Dean whispers, "How long until you scream?"


	8. Consequences (20 Words)

Sam Winchester, angry blade in hand, has shown up for his brother.  
  
Crowley sighs. All good things must eventually end.


	9. One Wrong Step

This is by far the most dangerous, reckless thing he's done in the several hundred years of his existence.  
  
The First Blade pressed against his throat, just shy of enough pressure to draw blood, Dean's free hand sliding under his clothes, Dean's lips twitching in the beginnings of a smirk under black eyes as he leans in to whisper, "Move an inch... I dare you..."  
  
The demon king barely dares to breathe - but he can't help thinking that if Dean's wicked game is the end of him, at least he'll die with far more satisfaction than any moment that he's lived.


	10. No Such Thing As a Lost Soul

It's no bloody fair, really.  
  
You'd think that selling one's soul, going through an eternity of suffering with the express intent of burning away what's left of one's humanity, followed by years of presiding over the suffering and torment and utter destruction of humanity would render one impenetrable - untouched by such paltry things as human emotion, especially something as tedious and common as a simple _broken heart_.  
  
But for all he's been through and all he's done, Crowley can't help the ache in his throat, the burn of sulfurous tears behind his eyes, as Dean casts one last smirk in his direction, shakes his head, and walks away.


	11. Kiss and Make Up

"Come on, then, you're not really so angry about _her_ ," Crowley scoffs, waving a dismissive hand toward the bleeding corpse cooling on the floor where Dean left her, moments after pulling her out of Crowley's bed. "Not after all _your_ dalliances, sometimes when I'm right in the same _room_."  
  
Dean smiles, but the twist of his lips is cruel, frightening, and his eyes shine black over his smile as he closes in.  
  
"You're _mine_ ," he snarls softly, affectionate and menacing at once, before grabbing the hair at the back of Crowley's neck and dragging him into a fierce kiss that leaves his chest aching for breath, and Dean's lips smeared with his blood. " _Never_ forget that."


	12. Spark

Dean can't imagine anyone else - not himself, or Sam, or even Cas, badass angel that he is - going through the kind of torture that Lucifer put Crowley through, and coming out of it so completely untouched, so completely _exactly the same_ as he was before; he _saw_ the effects of Lucifer's focused attention on his little brother, following Sam's stint in the Cage - but Crowley still gives him that same confident smirk, still speaks as if he's above the entire world.  
  
But the longer he's in the Bunker, the more Dean starts to notice... tiny changes... subtle tells; Crowley flinches just slightly when Dean slips up behind him to kiss his neck, draws in a sharp breath when Dean's hands touch him intimately, without warning.  
  
"It's all right, you're all right," Dean whispers, when it's late and dark and private, and the recovering not-quite-demon, not-quite-king is in his arms, in his bed. "You know we couldn't have beat him without you. He did his best to break you... and you _still_ managed to bring him down."


	13. Scream (50 Words)

Human again, Dean's conflicted.  
  
Crowley set him up to take the Mark - wanted him for himself, and made it happen.  
  
Dean's going to make the demon king pay for his scheming deception... tie him down, take him apart.  
  
He just can't decide whether he wants to hear him screaming for mercy... or for more.


	14. Not My Fault

He's summoned to the bunker, and before he can even regain his bearings, Dean Winchester's fist crashes down across his mouth.  
  
"Stay away from my family," Dean snarls - and although he knows Dean's talking about Crowley's latest dalliance with the angel, their hunt for Lucifer - he also knows that's not even in the slightest what Dean's actual problem is.  
  
"Not every bad thing that happens to you is my fault," Crowley snaps back, braced and ready so that once he delivers the verbal blow on the tip of his tongue, he can escape before Dean has the chance to retaliate. "Before taking out your abandonment issues on me, perhaps you should consider whether or not there's something about _you_ that drove her away."  
  
He stays just long enough to register Dean's flinch, and feels a spark of satisfaction - and maybe just a slight twinge of regret - before he wills himself away from the bunker and back to the middle of nowhere, where Castiel is probably wondering why he so abruptly vanished.  
  
It's not as if Dean Winchester has been exactly delicate with _his_ feelings, he reminds himself - and a little bit of turnabout is more than fair.


	15. The Quality of Mercy

When they find the dethroned king, locked in a tiny, dank cage that's more like a crate, in the throne room that Lucifer had taken over - he's shivering, huddled against the back wall, too broken to even meet their eyes - covered in bruises and burns, his face beaten almost past recognition.  
  
The thought that crosses Dean's mind bothers him more than he'd like to admit - the thought that considering the torture Lucifer must have put him through, the kindest thing they can do under the circumstances is to put Crowley out of his misery, and this is probably just the excuse Sam's always looking for to do just that - to end the demon who's caused them so much difficulty over the past several years.  
  
He's utterly stunned when Sam crouches down, careful and quiet, and extends a hand like he would to a skittish, wounded dog; his voice is soft and reassuring, trembling a little with remembered trauma of his own, as he says with genuine sympathy, "It's okay. He's gone, for good. We're - we're here to help."


	16. Nightmares

Demons _can_ sleep, but Crowley never does.   
  
The first time he lets himself drift off in Dean's bed after... Dean understands why.   
  
Hands clenched, he tosses restlessly, struggling. Dean pulls him in tight, holding him through his suffering.   
  
"Shhh... you're all right, I've got you..."  
  
Finally awake, Crowley hides against Dean's shoulder, mutters something bitter and angry. Dean hears one word: " _Humiliating_..."  
  
Dean kisses his neck. "He was the freakin' _devil_. But... he's gone now."   
  
Crowley settles against Dean's chest. Dean tilts his head up, kisses him, meets his eyes.  
  
"The only one you'll ever belong to again... is _me_."


	17. Wrong Number

The phone rings twice.  
  
 _"666."_  
  
The third time, he barks into the phone, " _What?_ "  
  
Silence for a moment, then, "I believe this is what is commonly called a 'butt dial'. Sorry. Except I'm not, because irritating you brings me an inordinate amount of pleasure."  
  
Dean smirks at the false bluster he hears. "Three times. Right."   
  
"Well, I certainly wasn't  _trying_  to call you," Crowley protests.   
  
The touch of insecurity makes Dean's smile soften. "What if I'm glad you did?" he relents. "Meet me for a drink."   
  
Crowley's silent for a long moment before replying, "Thirty minutes," and disconnecting the call.


	18. Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3-Sentence Fic

Only a true Knight of Hell could have this kind of strength, the power to pin him down and force him to listen as Dean whispers filth in his ear - tells him all the things he wants to do to him, he's  _going_  to do to him, because who can stop him now?   
  
And the delicious anticipation is in sharp, icy contrast to the stab of hurt as Dean smiles against his ear and continues to whisper... how worthless he is, how meaningless this encounter, how swiftly Dean will forget him and move on when he's done taking what he wants.   
  
Crowley shivers, arches up toward Dean, pleasure and pain, shame and desire inextricably entangled, and Dean's smile becomes a low, satisfied laugh against his skin, as Dean whispers, "Careful, Your Highness. Your humanity's showing..."


End file.
